


Donec Omnia Unum

by BlueMinuet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Vague War Mentions, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMinuet/pseuds/BlueMinuet
Summary: Captain Rodimus is perturbed when Admiral Optimus declines to assign him to the flagship of the Federation, the Enterprise-G. Meanwhile, the crew begins settling into the Lost Light, crew dynamics forming, as hints of excitement on the horizon begin to appear.AKA: The cast of MTMTE, but in a Star Trek setting.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: This takes place about circa 2390-ish, well after DS9/VOY… year may change slightly as I figure things out… 
> 
> Note 2: Everyone (for the most part) is keeping their Transformers names, and there will be little to no explanation about it (unless I happen to think of one and decide to work it in). This is in order for all of us to keep our sanity and know who is who. Just pretend like “Skids” is a perfectly normal human name. 
> 
> Note 3: I made [a supplemental guide](https://blueminuet.dreamwidth.org/10710.html) on the characters here, so you and I can both keep our sanity while keeping track of this ensemble cast.

“Sir, I’ve completed inspection on the ship. As it stands, I have a list of 38 action items I’d like to have addressed before we leave space dock.” Magnus had been all over the ship, looking for his new captain, and that had been after going all over it for the inspection. It was a productive day, though the efficiency was questionable, and Magnus would be lying if he said it wasn’t putting a bit of a damper on his mood. 

He’d found Rodimus in his ready room, on his third check of the room. Who knows where he’d been before that. 

Rodimus hadn’t turned to acknowledge him yet, one arm resting on the window glass, over his head, as he stared out. They were still in space dock around Jupiter, so the view was less stellar and more just the various gangways tethering them to the station. 

Magnus cleared his throat, and Rodimus gave him the barest look. 

“Thanks,” Rodimus said, grabbing the padd from Magnus’s hand. The padd was then instantly tossed onto his desk, much to Magnus’s horror. 

“Mags,” Rodimus said, cutting off the indignant noise bubbling in the back of Magnus’s throat. “Do you know why we’re here?”

Magnus blinked at him, too thrown off by the question to object to the casual nickname. “Sir?” 

Rodimus finally moved away from the window, walking away briskly. Magnus almost thought he was leaving, but he only made it as far as the opposite wall, and spun around to walk the length again, the close quarters of the room making the pacing seem more frantic. “Do you know why we’re here?” he said, emphasizing more by pointing down at the floor. “As opposed to… there.”

Magnus followed his captain’s dismissive finger flick at the window. He walked over, and squinted. He took him a moment to figure out what could have caught his eye, but he realized that if one squinted and tilted their head the right way, one could see past the mooring clamps and just barely get a view of the next bay over, where the new flagship was in a similar state of preparation. 

“Ah, I see,” Magnus said. “This is about Captain Bumblebee.” 

Rodimus stopped in his tracks, spinning to face Magnus. “This is not about Bumblebee. It’s about the Enterprise! Why would it be about Bumblebee? He’s not the captain of the Enterprise…”

“Yet,” Magnus said. “Officially. However…”

“Shut up.” Rodimus threw himself onto the couch in the corner, glaring at the opposite wall. “It’s about Optimus sending us on this waste of time deep space scanning quest.”

“Speaking of the Admiral, we have a meeting in an hour…”

Rodimus waved him off again. “You know, I was in that guy’s head for a couple days… or maybe it’s more accurate to say he was in mine.” He sighed in the middle of reminiscing. “You’d think after that I’d know what he’s thinking, but I still don’t understand a damn thing he does.”

Magnus searched around the room a moment, but deciding on grabbing a chair to sit across from Rodimus, as the captain seemed content to take up the entire couch. “I’d heard about the incident with the Prime symbiote. I understand it’s a rare happenstance, to have two living Trill that have hosted the same symbiote. It’s a fascinating concept.”

Rodimus sighed. “I feel like you’re changing the subject… also don’t Vulcans get up in people’s minds all the time? It can’t be too far off from that.” 

“I suppose some do,” Magnus said, after a short pause. “I tend not to indulge in the psychic arts myself, however. I feel it’s a bit of a messy affair.” 

Rodimus hummed. “You’re nothing if not consistent, Mags.”

“My name is Ultra Magnus,” he said, though Rodimus was already rolling his eyes before he’d even finished. “Though I understand there is a long standing tradition of captains referring to their first officers as ‘number one’ so I would be willing to consider that as an alternative.”

“That’s another thing,” Rodimus said. “No offense, but I’m not too pleased with Optimus rearranging my crew like this. I _wanted_ Drift as my first officer.”

“Yes, but I do hope you understand the politics that are preventing installing an ex-Tal Shiar assassin as a superior officer.”

“Why not?” Rodimus said with a shrug. “Optimus seems to have no qualms making my ship his political dumping ground anyway.”

“As you pointed out, you requested Drift. Cyclonus called in a favor to you to come aboard, and as for Whirl, well, you served with him back in the war.”

“Why do you like arguing with me?”

Magnus considered smiling, but landed on attempting a shrug instead, which seemed like an easier maneuver to pull off. “I’m just giving my captain a reality check. I think that’s likely the first officer’s primary duty.”

Rodimus smiled, closing his eyes. “Okay, serious question. Wouldn’t you rather be assigned to the Enterprise too? Don’t you regret being here with me instead?”

“That would be illogical. I requested to serve under you.”

Rodimus shook his head. “And why on Earth would you do that?”

“I’m not from Earth, so that idiom hardly seems relevant. For that matter, neither are you.” 

“I guess all the humans have finally rubbed off on me.” Rodimus laughed at that, and finally pushed himself up off the couch. “Fine. Let’s not keep the Admiral waiting, I guess.” 

Magnus gave a crisp nod to that, getting up and following him out of the ready room, to the adjacent turbo lift. 

“Speaking of Whirl and Cyclonus,” Rodimus said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “Those can’t have been easy room assignments. Hope you figured out an arrangement that won’t end up in a hull breach.”

Magnus shook his head. “Unfortunately there wasn’t room to get both of them single accommodations.”

“Don’t tell me you put them together,” Rodimus said, his eyebrows raising to his hairline. 

“No, no,” Magnus said. “I opted to give Whirl the single berth, and found what will hopefully be a suitable bunk mate for Cyclonus.” He crossed his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “Someone that hopefully he’ll be less inclined to fight, should his sense of honor be what he says it is.”

Rodimus whistled. “Well, best of luck to whatever crewman pulled your short straw.”  
  


* * *

  
The tiny Andorian was staring at him. 

Cyclonus was more than aware of the set of eyes and attentive antennae dialed in on him, but he continued nonetheless, working to unpack into the allotted storage space. Not that he had much more than a duffle bag to his name. 

Speaking of which, when he shifted his bag to get down to the contents at the bottom, he accidentally knocked over his only other possession, protected in a wide case that had been leaning against the slim dresser. He turned to catch it before it hit the floor, and in doing so, accidentally made eye contact with the tiny Andorian. 

He glared at him for a full minute before finally deciding to sigh. “Speak.” 

The Andorian jumped slightly. “Umm, what?” 

“You clearly wish to say something to me,” Cyclonus said, his voice nearly a low growl. “Say it and be done.” 

“Oh, sorry,” he barely squeaked out. “Was I staring? I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that I’ve never really seen a Klingon before. I mean, obviously I’ve seen a Klingon before, but not really up close, and…” 

Cyclonus glared at him. 

The Andorian stumbled over his words, but in no way seemed dissuaded. “See, it’s just that. I was a cadet back when, we were at war. I mean, the Klingon Empire and the Federation, you know? And… Oh, I guess that makes me sound old or something, but actually I was just in this accident repairing a sleeper pod ship, and, umm…” 

“Name?” Cyclonus said, interrupting his rambling. 

The Andorian stumbled over his words again. “Uhh?” 

“What is your name?” Cyclonus said, putting a sharp emphasis on each word. 

“Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “Tailgate. I mean, not really. My full name is actually Tali ch’Gat, but at the academy some of the humans thought my name sounded like this ancient Earth ritual called a tailgate so I guess the name kind of… stuck.” 

“Tali, a chen of the Gat clan,” Cyclonus said. 

Tailgate’s antennae stood at attention. “You know Andorian naming conventions?” 

Cyclonus nodded. “I had met some… in my time. I also come from the time when our people were at war.” 

“I know, a sleeper ship of Klingons coming to attack the Federation. I heard the stories,” Tailgate said, at first casually but then tensing when he realized he may have said too much. “I mean! Maybe I wasn’t supposed to hear the stories! Or maybe they were just rumors? But I heard about you, back on the Utopia Planitia station while we were waiting for the ship, and I just thought it was so cool that someone from around my time was going to be on the ship. I mean, I don’t know about you, but it’s been really hard for me to acclimate. I mean, first of all, they made me go _back_ to Starfleet Academy, because apparently there’s all these new things to learn about engineering, which was my specialty. Well, I guess it still is, but it’s hard not to feel like I got dumber over all those centuries I was sleeping.” 

Cyclonus stared at him, unblinking. 

“Sorry,” Tailgate said. “I ramble a lot when I’m nervous.” 

“So I see.” 

Tailgate seemed unbothered by that. “So, what’s your clan name then?” 

Cyclonus tried not to wince, but Tailgate seemed to take his silence as an invitation to continue talking. 

“I mean, that’s how Klingons do it too, right? Or wait, is it your father’s name? Cyclonus son of…?” 

“Son of none,” Cyclonus said, walking away to find a place to stow his now empty duffle. 

“Oh, then… your clan? Or house?” 

Cyclonus turned to glare at him once more. “Also none.” 

“Oh,” Tailgate said, voice growing quiet. “Then, I’m guessing maybe you also don’t want to talk about…” Tailgate pointed at his left antenna, and then at the left side of Cyclonus’s face. 

Without thinking, Cyclonus reached up in response, running a hand over the right side of his headpiece. A simple metal piece that slotted just over his cranial ridges. A single horn adorned the right side, while the left side bore only a cracked nub. 

“I thought it might be… some kind of family thing,” Tailgate said, still quiet. “I’ve head of Klingons having symbols like that.” 

Cyclonus looked away. “You needn’t concern yourself with it.”

“Oh, alright,” Tailgate said. “Let’s just get to know each other then. I mean, since we’ll be bunking together after all.” He looked over to said bunks thoughtfully. “Speaking of, do you want top or bottom? I was thinking bottom, because I thought the top bunk might be more roomy for you, but now that I’m looking at it, the bottom one might be bigger.”

Cyclonus reached for his wide case, unlocking the clasps as Tailgate continued rambling, and pulled his bat’leth from it. That seemed to stop Tailgate in his tracks, and Cyclonus did his best not to grin, as he whirled the weapon over his arm, before tucking it at his side. 

“It makes no difference to me. Choose whichever you wish,” he said, before marching out the door, bat’leth in hand.  
  


* * *

  
“So, Lieutenant Skids, what brings you here today?” 

Skids flopped back onto the couch in the therapist’s office. Cushy… maybe a bit too much so. He flopped around for a moment, laying out on his back without invitation, trying to make himself comfortable as his brain automatically scanned the room. Softer lighting than anywhere else on a Federation ship, some thin fabrics obscuring some of the harsher lighting. The ship hadn’t even left port, and already it seemed the office was well broken in. Personalized. Model ships covered shelves that hardly seemed standard issue. When has he had time to install those?

And then there was the therapist himself. Skids wasn’t sure if he was an officer — many mental health staff were often civilian workers. Even if they were Starfleet, they were typically allowed more leeway in their dress code. This one… Skids couldn’t tell if he looked like a misplaced time traveler from the past or an extra in a futuristic scifi holo. His clothing — orange and gold with hints of light blue — were oddly Victorian, but his glasses — more like goggles — were something else entirely. 

“Who knows, Doc. I forget…” 

The therapist raised a cleanly manicured eyebrow. Skids didn’t consider himself the best person to rate attractiveness, but there was something about the man in front of him that was just fascinating, and not just because of the distinctive circular orange hat. Skids found himself wondering what his eyes looked like under the goggles. 

As the long pause grew awkward, Skids was forced to break the silence. “That’s an amnesia joke, Doc.” 

“You may call me Rung,” the therapist said.

Skids had the good grace to look scolded. “I guess you don’t like jokes, huh?” 

“On the contrary, jokes can be quite useful.” Rung slid off his glasses, and Skids found himself more captivated than he would have liked to admit. His eyes were a striking blue, squinting at his glasses as he wiped them with a cleaning cloth. 

“You’re not quite human, are you?” Skids asked. 

Rung’s eyes flitted to him, and Skids felt like he was entirely transparent. “Do you find it easier to talk about me than yourself?” 

Skids frowned, and Rung seemed to take pity on him, smiling slightly. “I’m an El-Aurian,” he said. “They say we’re a species of listeners.” 

Skids flipped over on the couch, sitting up to get a better look at him. “So, does that mean you’re an empath?” 

“One doesn’t need special powers to be a good listener,” Rung said, slipping his glasses back on. There was an unmistakable smirk just barely twisting his features, however. 

“My, what a cagey way of not exactly saying ‘no’.” 

“Just like one can come from Earth and still have special powers,” Rung said. 

Skids went stock still, and though Rung’s eyes were obscured, he was sure they were boring into him. “Well…” He paused, biting his lip as he decided how to respond to that. “I know for a fact that wasn’t in my file.” 

Rung leaned back, and crossed his legs, seeming unconcerned. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Skids…” 

“Yeah, well, don’t go telling Starfleet that or anything…” 

Rung smiled, and Skids was shocked to actually feel comforted by it. “Skids, everything said in here is in confidence. I would never dream of reporting anything to higher powers.” 

“Good, because it’s not exactly a good time to get outed as an Augment.” Skids was looking down at his lap so resolutely, that he didn’t realize that Rung had moved until a box of something was gently nudged into his field of vision. He looked up to see Rung, with the soft smile, gently shaking the box. 

“Sap Sticks? They’re from Bolarus.” 

Skids gave him an odd look, before finally reaching out and pulling one of the sticks from the box. It wasn’t terribly sticky, but when he popped one end into his mouth, it seemed to instantly begin melting into sweet sugar. 

“So, from what I’ve gathered, you are experiencing amnesia for unknown reasons, and yet had to be ordered to attend therapy,” Rung said, setting the box of candy aside. 

“Dunno why I might have a mistrust of health professional,” Skids said around the stick. “Weird, right?”

Rung smiled, like one might at a petulant child. “But, clearly you remember some things. Let’s start with that.”

Skids sighed. “Eyebrows, has anyone told that even when you’re being nice you’re creepy as hell?”

Rung continued calmly smiling.  
  


* * *

  
“Where do you want this box of, uh…” Drift hefted the container in his hands, trying to figure out what was in it. “I’m going to assume rocks?” he said, failing to find a label. 

Perceptor turned and gave it a look over. He nodded to the corner. “Set it over there with the rest of the lab equipment. I’ll need to go through everything anyway to find a proper place for all the things I’ll need.” 

Drift smirked, and turned to set the container down. “I know that tone, Percy.” 

Perceptor’s lip twitched. “I had no tone. As I do not experience emotions, any inflection you hear is merely coincidental.” 

“Uh huh.” Drift leaned over one of the workspaces, grinning at him. “Come on, you can’t fool me with that. What is it? Lab space too cramped for you? Miffed you didn’t get posted to the Enterprise-G?” 

Perceptor leaned closer to him, with the look of a scientist studying a specimen. “If you devoted yourself more to the Vulcan mental exercises I taught you, you would be less inclined to trouble yourself with such minutiae.” 

Drift’s grin cocked upward. “Uh huh… Well, you know what they say, Romulus wasn’t built in a day.” 

Drift would swear Percy smirked at that, even though he would deny that the slight tick of his lips meant anything. “I do appreciate you coming to help me unpack the lab,” Perceptor said. “I would have thought you’d be busy assisting the captain.”

“Well, speaking of people who are miffed,” Drift muttered. “I thought it would be best to lay low while Rodimus throws whatever tantrum he’s about throw at Optimus.” 

“Yes… perhaps my logic lessons have not been lost on you after all,” Perceptor said, and Drift was sure he wasn’t imagining the smirk this time. 

The moment was short lived, however, with the door to the lab bursting open and a bustle of activity pouring in. It was an odd group, even by Drift’s definition, the largest and loudest being what he assumed was a Breen, though he’d never seen one in a suit so skinny and spindly, making him look like a spider forced to walk like a human. Next to him was a Bajoran woman in an Engineering uniform, and taking up the rear seemed to be a human, though he couldn't quite see past the Breen’s waving arms. 

“Here it is! Told you I knew the way!”

“You led us to three wrong locations, Whirl.”

“I was taking you on a tour. Besides, you’re lucky Brainiac here is on my good side, or we never would’ve left the armory.” 

Perceptor’s posture straightened, face going even more stoic than it had been, in what Drift assumed must have been a preemptive clamp down on any anger that might even consider brewing. “What is going on here?”

The human pushed his way into the lab, a wide grin on his face as he set down the box he was carrying. Drift couldn’t help but notice his brown-gold skin, with eyes to match, and seemed to sparkle in contrast with his blue science uniform. 

He looked to see if Percy was at all affected and only saw the frown deepening. 

“Yes, I think this will do quite nicely,” the human said, taking a look around the lab. 

Drift decided to take a few steps away before Perceptor’s forehead vein burst, opting to help out with the boxes. “Hey mind if I help with that?” he asked the Bajoran woman, who nodded and gladly handed over her box. “You guys know each other?” Drift asked. 

“The Breen and I only know each other over a couple drinks on Mars station while we were waiting for our transport to come in, so at least I don’t have to take responsibility for him,” she said. “Unfortunately,” she jabbed a finger over her shoulder at the human, “Brainstorm and I have been best friends since we were cadets.” 

Drift set down the box in the corner with the rest and waved a hand. “Don’t worry, I already met Whirl back during the Dominion war. Would never dare to judge anybody unfortunate enough to get tangled up with him. Good drinking buddy, though.”

She smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Nautica.”

Drift shook it, smiling. “Drift.”

Slowly, her smile dropped. “Oh prophets, I’m sorry! I forgot about Vulcans and touching, I shouldn’t have made you shake hands. Damn it, I never should have taken interspecies relations as a morning class.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but Drift held onto it a second longer, making a point to laugh good-naturedly. “No worries, Nautica. No offense taken.”

She squinted at him. “You’re a bit strange for a Vulcan, aren’t you?”

To which he had to laugh louder. 

Meanwhile, the situation over on the other side of the lab was quickly deteriorating. 

“Sorry if I surprised you,” Brainstorm said, crossing the lab to lean on a workbench next to Perceptor. “I needed help getting all of my stuff loaded in. Have a lot of heavy stuff that needed to be transferred from Utopia Planitia.”

Perceptor raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been assigned to this lab?”

Brainstorm flashed a cocky smile. “I have a lot of important work, so I needed the best space in the ship.”

Perceptor scowled. “As chief science officer, I had assumed I would receive a lab space of my own.”

Brainstorm shrugged. “Orders came from high up. Not even sure Rodimus had a hand in it.”

“Then I will be sure to make sure my objections are known, both with him and Commander Ultra Magnus. Of course, I will have to make sure Admiral Optimus Prime is copied on it as well to keep him in the loop.” 

As he turned to his console, Brainstorm’s expression changed from cocky to slightly concerned. 

“I’m sure there’s no reason to bother the Admiral…”

“On the contrary, it is a matter of due diligence and…”

“Listen,” Brainstorm said, scooting closer to him. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. Let’s just talk?” He offered his hand. “I’m Brainstorm. Lieutenant Junior Class, experimental quantum physics wunderkind. Nice to meet you.”

Perceptor looked at his hand, then up at him. “Please refrain from attempting to touch me. I understand you are attempting a polite gesture, but you would do well to recall Vulcan etiquette.”

At that, he brushed past him, leaving Brainstorm with an extended hand. He heaved out a sigh. “Right… How silly of me to forget…”  
  


* * *

  
“I believe that’s all the information you’ll be needing on the mission for the time being,” Optimus said, placing a padd on the desk between them. Magnus was the one to pick it up, and Rodimus was more than happy to let him handle the follow up questions. 

He’d hardly been paying attention the entire briefing. More droning on and on about flight paths, checking in on science stations and rim colonies. A glorified patrol ship. Rodimus had crossed his legs, and only the fact that Magnus might have a heart attack had stopped him from propping his feet up on the table. Regardless, Prowl was glaring at him. 

Prowl. Civilian attaché to the Federation elite. Also a Vulcan with a rigid resting glare to put all other Vulcans to shame, not to mention taking that Vulcan minimalist aesthetic to the furthest possible extreme with plain cream-white robes. Rodimus had long held the belief that Prowl hated him — lack of emotions be damned — and had thus far found no evidence to the contrary. 

Rodimus’s musings were cut short as Optimus cleared his throat. “Well, if that answers all of your questions, Commander Ultra Magnus, I believe we can call this meeting adjourned.” He stood, bowing slightly to Magnus rather than reach for his hand, a gesture that Magnus mirrored back to him. 

Just as Rodimus was leaning forward to stand, Optimus spoke again. “Rodimus, if you could stay behind a moment?”

Magnus gave him a concerned glance, but left all the same, followed closely by Prowl who seemed more than happy to leave without sparing a second look. 

Optimus was still standing, and rather than return to his desk, he paced over to his window, staring out into the stars. With only the two of them in the room, Rodimus gave into his urges, making no effort to hide the sound of his shoes hitting the surface of the desk. 

“Rodimus, I understand there is still some tension between us…”

Rodimus also made no effort to hold back a laugh. 

“I know you wanted the Enterprise,” Optimus said, seeming unconcerned. “But you must understand. I want to make sure we have the best people in the most suited roles.”

“Wow,” Rodimus said. “Just when I thought this might be an apology, you just twist the knife a little more, huh?” He mimicked the action with his hands, adding a squelching noise for good measure. 

Optimus finally turned to look at him. “You and I… we share a bond almost no Trill have. To have two living Trill who have hosted the same symbiote. It’s unheard of.” He gave Rodimus an almost pleading look. “So, I would hope you know me better than that.”

Rodimus rolled his eyes, and refused to look at him. 

“There are those that would accuse me of favoritism, giving you this posting,” Optimus said, ignoring Rodimus’s indignant sigh of disgust. “But in all honesty, it’s quite the opposite. I dread subjecting you to this,” he said, turning back to the window. “But I truly believe you are the best suited to the task at hand.”

“What in the cosmos are you talking about?” Rodimus spat. “For a dinky patrol mission, what in the f—”

“Good luck,” Optimus said, as the distinctive flash of a transporter beam glowed around him. 

In the same instant, Prowl was transported back in. He walked over to Optimus’s desk, never breaking his glare away from Rodimus. 

As for Rodimus, he was startled enough to pull his feet off of the desk, sitting up straight in his chair. “Alright, what in the hell is going on?”

Prowl leaned over, resting his knuckles on the edge of the desk. “I’m not going to lie, I still have my reservations about you. But I trust Optimus implicitly, and so if he insists it should be… you.”

“I knew it,” Rodimus said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I knew you hated me.”

“My lack of emotion precludes the concept of hating you,” Prowl said. “I merely do not have faith in your abilities as an officer.”

Rodimus rolled his eyes. 

“Regardless,” Prowl said. He pulled at the collar of his white robes, popping the clasps apart to reveal a black Starfleet badge. “We have a mission for you.”


	2. Returning Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Lost Light prepares to leave spacedock, the crew continues to complicate matters for themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note of the added violence tag 
> 
> Also, Klingon blood is pink — as is shown in Star Trek VI — and I invite the show runners to fight me.

“How can you have not heard of The Sector 113 Uprising?” 

Tailgate crossed his arms and lowered his antennae. “It’s not that I haven’t heard of it,” he muttered. “It’s just, I was kind of in stasis through all of it. Not that I regret it, of course. Saved a lot of people before putting myself in cold storage as a last ditch attempt, but you know, you miss a lot.” He huffed. “They made me take a lot of history courses at the Academy, but it all kind of blends together.” 

“Not to worry,” Rewind said brightly, fiddling with some kind of mechanical apparatus attached to his skull. “I’ve been working on a documentary for it. It’s not exactly where I want it, but it’s probably more interesting than an Academy course.” 

Tailgate had decided he liked Rewind about twelve seconds after meeting him. He was strange, for a Binar. Well, he was strange for any species, probably, but especially for a Binar. Tailgate at least knew about his species, which was somewhat comforting on a ship that contained a lot more species than the Federation had been friendly with back in his day. But still, he was used to Binars being a stand-offish bunch, always keeping to themselves, muttering to their twins in their strange, lightning fast language. 

Tailgate had foolishly asked Rewind if a Binar could survive without their twin, which he had only realized might be a sore subject exactly as it was leaving his mouth. Thankfully, Rewind had just laughed and explained that in most cases the answer was no, but he and ‘Domey’ had a system that worked well enough to replace the need for a twin.

Tailgate still couldn’t decide if he was scared of Chromedome or not, but Rewind was fine. 

“Wouldn’t it be a lot more interesting as a holonovel?” Swerve asked, leaning over the bar. For how short the Ferengi was, Tailgate figured that Swerve’s toes probably weren’t on the ground anymore, but he seemed so interested in whatever it was that Rewind was doing that he had pulled himself up onto the bar anyway. 

“Everything is a holonovel these days,” Rewind said, a tinge of venom in his voice. “No respect for the old art forms. Besides, it’s too easy to bias a narrative in a holonovel.” 

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t complain,” Swerve said. “Getting to be the hero against Commander Megatron’s forces. Be in the starring role, maybe say something really cool while holding him at phaserpoint.” 

Tailgate secretly thought Swerve’s idea did sound like a lot more fun. 

Rewind was still fiddling with his apparatus, which was now occasionally blinking with a blue-white light. “Hmmph, this piece has been fiddly since our last assignment. Maybe someone else could catch Tailgate up to speed? Brainstorm?” 

Brainstorm, who had been doing his best to ignore the conversation and converse politely with Nautica, frowned. “What? I wouldn’t know anything about it.” 

Rewind glared at him. “You’re from the neutral zone.” 

Brainstorm rolled his eyes. “Well, _he_ wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t said anything. What? Were my stunning good looks supposed to give it away?” 

Tailgate squinted at his bronze skin and chemically lightened hair, but if that was supposed to give any hints to where he came from, it was lost on him. 

Nautica cleared her throat. “It’s not as if it’s an easy subject,” she said. “It was a strange time for the sector, right after the Dominion war. Not that it was ever easy. Bajor was still recovering from the Cardassian Occupation, and the inhabitants of the neutral zone had been in conflicts with Cardassia even before that, only to be steamrolled by the Dominion as well.”

Brainstorm frowned. “I was in the academy by the time they built Deep Space 113,” he said, looking away. “Remember thinking it’d never work. Try to stabilize the area? Never. Even with Cardassia in shambles, there was too much bad blood. People of the demilitarized zone, even the humans, hated the Federation almost as much as they hated Cardassia, and then the Federation thinks they can just come in and assist both sides? It was a pipe dream.” 

“Except it worked, didn’t it?” Nautica said. “Just not the way the Federation ever thought it would.” 

“Much as you hate it, you have to give that to Megatron at least,” Brainstorm said. “Unified the former Maquis and the remnants of Cardassia over their mutual hatred of Federation intrusion. Even got the Romulans in on the game, even though they allied with the Federation in the Dominion War.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, I lived through it and I could hardly explain it to you.” 

“But this Megatron guy,” Tailgate said, “he was human too, right?” 

Brainstorm shrugged. “Doesn’t mean much. He was Federation too. Betrayed them for the Maquis, but was re-integrated in when the Dominion War began. Given command of Deep Space 113, aside Captain Optimus Prime, in the hopes that his knowledge of the region could help stabilize it.” He shook his head. “And boy, did it ever.” 

“I still don’t get where the whole genetic modification thing comes in,” Tailgate said. “Always thought that was just an Earth thing.” 

“Oh man, is my briefcase ringing?” Brainstorm picked up the odd carrying case he kept with him, indistinguishable from an engineering repair case aside from the fact that it was orange. “Man, that’s probably bad, I gotta go…” 

Before Tailgate could say a word, the pneumatic door was snapping shut with Brainstorm on the other side. 

Nautica shook her head. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “Brainstorm’s colony was left on the Cardassian side of the line drawn by the Federation. I’m not sure if he suffered from that directly.” Nautica fidgeted slightly, worrying at her dangling earring. “We don’t talk about that much.” 

“Oh,” Tailgate said, antennae snapping back in shame. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“There we go,” Rewind shouted, interjecting as a steady stream of light poured from his apparatus. He looked up at the wall, and stepped back until the image displayed properly on the wall. “Movie time.” 

“I still think it would have been easier to replicate a projector that doesn’t walk and talk,” Swerve muttered. 

Rewind shushed him, sitting on the surface of the table in front of Tailgate, and straightening his neck to display the image. “Okay, Tailgate. Let me know what you think.” 

Despite being a little dubious about the entertainment value of a documentary over an action-packed holonovel, he settled in to watch.  
  


* * *

  
Optimus didn’t turn to look when he heard the door to his office swish open and close, the rush of air almost louder than the footsteps of his visitor. He’d locked the door, and he could count on one hand the number of people either with the combination or the override access on an Admiral level suite. It didn’t really matter; he knew his guest had both.

He was still staring out the window of the station, at the stars, when Ratchet turned and leaned his back into the large panoramic view, just over in the side of Optimus’s vision. Far enough away not to block his view, but close enough to not be ignored. 

“What can I do for you, old friend?” 

Ratchet spat out a dismissive noise. “Well, you can shove that calm, formal tone back where you found it, for one.” 

Optimus blinked, but didn’t react any further than that. “Would you like a dri—” He stopped mid-thought when he noticed Ratchet leaning over to the number pad on Optimus’s desk drawer, casually keying in the code — his mother’s birthday — and automatically diving for the farthest back compartment to grab the bottle of whiskey. 

“Good vintage,” Ratchet muttered, turning it over in his hands to look more closely at the label. “Earth, Kentucky. Glad you took it to heart when I told you we humans have always made the best whiskey.” 

“It’s the one you gave me,” Optimus said. He leaned over to the other side of his desk to grab two glasses. “When I was re-assigned to the Enterprise-F after the Dominion War.” 

Ratchet frowned. “After Deep Space 113, you mean.” He made quick work of the wax seal on the bottle’s neck and popped the cork out.

“We’re talking about the same thing,” Optimus said, holding out a glass. Ratchet emptied a generous glug into it, and just as Optimus was offering him the other glass, Ratchet simply took a swig directly from the bottle. 

Optimus put the extra glass back down without a word. 

They sat in silence for a moment, just the hum of Utopia Planitia around them, alone in the dark office lit only by the stars and the light of the shipyard outside. Optimus risked a glance at Ratchet. 

It was hard for a Trill, sometimes, to navigate how they felt about friends they’d had before becoming joined. Especially in such an odd case, in which Ratchet had known his previous host as well. Sometimes he felt like he was viewing Ratchet through the eyes of Zeta, Orion, and Optimus all at once. 

Ratchet himself had changed too, of course. Optimus could remember when his hair had been fully red, before going white at the temples, and now nearly all white with a few stubborn streaks of red clinging on for dear life. 

Optimus smirked despite himself. “I was really hoping you would have taken the appointment to Starfleet medical.” 

Ratchet scoffed, taking another swig of the whiskey. “It’s like Bumblebee used to say. Some dogs can’t stay on the porch.” He looked over to Optimus. “Sometimes I’m surprised you can.” 

Optimus shrugged. “I go where I’m needed, and if that’s Earth headquarters, then so be it.” He took another sip, looking at Ratchet over his glass. “I wouldn’t mention Bumblebee so flippantly though. Last I heard, he was absolutely livid that you’d chosen the Lost Light over the Enterprise-G.” 

“You can’t please everyone,” Ratchet said with a dismissive shrug. “And if I can’t please both you and Bumblebee, then I might as well make Rodimus miserable too while I’m at it.” Ratchet swished the bottle in his hands consideringly, pointedly not looking at Optimus. “Besides, I go where I’m needed as well. I know what’s in store for the Lost Light.” 

Optimus looked away from him, staring out into the starfield instead. “Even as an admiral, there are certain things that I am not privy to. If you believe something is going on with the Lost Light, I cannot confirm that.” 

“Cut the crap, Orion,” Ratchet growled, glaring out him just out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve seen the flight plan. I’m old, I’m not stupid.” 

Optimus looked down at his drink, cowed slightly. “I suppose Prowl didn’t expect you’d take the Lost Light assignment either.” 

“I suppose not,” Ratchet said, a growling quality still tinting his words. He tilted back the bottle again, letting some of the liquor roll over his tongue before he swallowed. “But that’s just another mess I’ll have to clean up.” 

“So, what do you plan to do with that knowledge?” Optimus asked, glancing at him. 

Ratchet leaned forward, placing the bottle back on Optimus’s desk. “I do what I always do. I patch up the kids you lot send out into the grinder.” He stood up straight, and looked Optimus dead on. “I don’t know what it is that you, or Prowl, or anyone else wants with him now. But I hope it’s worth it to open up that damned scar all over again.” 

Optimus frowned, but said nothing. 

“And after I’m done patching up whoever gets caught in his crossfire,” Ratchet said, pausing to take a slow breath between his simmering. “I’ll punch him. For the both of us.” 

Having said his peace, Ratchet turned and stalked off towards the door. 

“Are you sure?” Optimus said, and heard Ratchet’s footfalls stop short. “You’ve always been a better shot with a phaser.” 

Optimus didn’t turn to look at him, but he knew Ratchet was still standing there, considering. 

“You young punks,” Ratchet grumbled. “Someday you’ll understand that some things are best done by hand.” 

Optimus barely held back a chuckle as Ratchet stormed out the door.  
  


* * *

  
“Just to be clear, I’m not on board with this.” 

Brainstorm didn’t bother looking up. The sound of the door whooshing open and shut without a single alarm said well enough that it was someone Prowl had already given the access codes to, and also, he was just glad to hear the voice out loud, not only in his head. 

“Good to see you too, Chromedome,” Brainstorm said, without looking away from the vial in his hand. He swished it around for a moment, waiting for the deep green to shift to a lighter blue, before popping the solution into a hypospray. 

“I’m serious,” Chromedome said, leaning over onto the worktable, glaring at him, adding on an angry psychic nudge for good measure. Brainstorm was forced to meet his friend’s glance, and sighed. 

The average Deltan was little more than touch-telepathic, though there were exceptions. For example, those they knew well could build a psychic bond that could be accessed at will. Between Brainstorm and Chromedome, this was typically little more than a bit of psychic suggestion between friends, though Brainstorm could well remember instances of more substantive psychic scolding. 

Brainstorm had once joked that Chromedome could make things much easier on himself if he just assimilated Brainstorm with the reverse-engineered nanites that they had made, back at the Starfleet Intelligence Institute — which currently resided within Chromedome and the experimental Borg tech installed within him. 

When Chromedome didn’t seem off put by this, Brainstorm made a note to never joke about it again. 

“I’m just saying, you’re here though,” Brainstorm said, fully turning to Chromedome and gesturing with the hypospray in his hand. “In the secret lab that isn’t on the ship schematics that you definitely only know about because Prowl told you to be here.” 

Chromedome scoffed, and turned away. “I agreed to _look_ ,” he grumbled. “And I have. Now you can tell Prowl that I thought about it and then tell him I said fuck off.” 

Brainstorm shrugged. “Fine by me.” He gave the hypospray in his hand another quick swish, examining the color one last time, before injecting it in his neck. Ignoring Chromedome’s pointed look at that, he continued. “What? I know Prowl won’t release _my_ blackmail, just because you’re being a spoilsport.” 

Chromedome crossed his arms, and refused to respond to that. Brainstorm decided that was fine enough, grabbing one of the scanners from the workbench, and crossing the room to plug it into… well, the large tube on the other end of the lab. He whistled lightly, just loud enough for Chromedome to hear. “You have to admit, we haven’t seen stuff like this since the Institute.” 

“Yeah, and that’s the problem.” Chromedome muttered. 

Brainstorm continued working, checking temperature and pressure, keeping all the readings in the green zone. “Thought you weren’t ashamed of your Institute stuff anymore… Told the husband and all that.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder. “Wait, Prowl’s blackmail isn’t from when you and he were dating, is it?” 

That provoked Chromedome into movement, shoving Brainstorm, and giving him a stronger psychic jolt that made his eyes cross for half a second. 

(Brainstorm was well aware that most individuals found such psychic blows from a Deltan to be intoxicatingly erotic, but Brainstorm was fairly sure Chromedome had never even considered letting him in on what those kind of impulses were like.) 

“I’m not ashamed of my past anymore,” Chromedome said. He tapped his fingers on the glass of the cylinder before them, letting his assimilation tubules tap as well. “Maybe I should be. But Prowl can’t blackmail me with it anymore.” 

Brainstorm hummed at that. “Well, if you say so.” 

“Surprised you want anything to do with this either,” Chromedome said, eyeing him. 

“ _Want_ is a very strong word,” he countered. He paused, looking through the glass. The liquid within was hazy, a necessary side effect of the transportation process, but was clearing up. He could just barely see the outline of the form within. 

“Piece of work,” Chromedome muttered. “Remember when—” 

“Don’t say it,” Brainstorm whispered, and Chromedome almost seemed taken aback by the serious tone. “Of course I do.” 

Chromedome considered him a moment, before huffing. “One of the only Cardassians to go through the augment process.” He shook his head. “I don’t want anything to do with it. Not anymore, alright?” 

Brainstorm wasn’t really listening anymore, the suspension gel becoming clearer, and the distinctive ridges of a Cardassian brow becoming visible, superimposing over his own reflection. 

He clutched the empty hypospray in his fist, and urged himself to walk away. His legs didn’t deign to follow that command though, instead finding himself frozen in place. 

Chromedome made a disgruntled noise at Brainstorm’s silence, turning to walk away. “Just tell him, alright?”

“Yeah,” Brainstorm said, not looking as the door opened and shut. “Yeah, sure.”  
  


* * *

  
About seven hours ago, Cyclonus had found himself on a bar fight on Mars Station. It hadn’t started out as a bar fight, having first been a storage closet fight, then a hallway fight, and then degraded as things did into a bar fight while several engineering and science officers bunkered behind some upturned tables. 

The storage closet which had served as the location of the inciting incident had contained several drone parts, that seemed to have been put in questionable positions by a Breen that Cyclonus had been fairly sure had no business being there. Despite attempting to explain that he had no intention of going to such lengths as reporting the Breen to authorities or anything of the sort, the fight had merely escalated beyond Cyclonus’s control. Given that he had willingly surrendered his bat’leth to station security, he had found himself at a slight disadvantage, with a few scrapes and bruises and a broken ceremonial headpiece to show for it. 

Cyclonus had therefore sworn that the moment he was reunited with his bat’leth, he would cut the head off of something. If that _something_ ended up being the Breen in question, then so be it. But in lieu of that, he was willing to simply make judicious use of the ship’s holodecks until he was sufficiently sated. 

However, the holodeck didn’t seem to be keen on the idea of letting him in. At the third denial chime, Cyclonus bit back on the urge to stab the damned console. But, instead, he merely stalked away. He had heard something about a bar in the forward section of the ship, which he was nearby, and decided to head there. Surely someone in the establishment would know how to work the accursed holodeck, and failing that, he could at least see if they served anything more potent than the typical Federation synthahol swill. 

He turned a corner, and found himself face to face with the Breen. 

He wasn’t a typical Breen, who were normally in their bulky refrigeration suits that hid any kind of distinctive features. Cyclonus had heard the rumors about Breen, that the reason for all the conflicting information about them was that there were multiple species making up their confederation, and the refrigeration suit only served to give them a uniform look. He hadn’t put much thought into the notion, but the distinctive look of Whirl gave him reason to think there might be some merit to it. 

Whirl hitched a narrow hip, digging a spindly, clawed hand over his waist. “Well, imagine seeing you here.”

Cyclonus scowled at him, but made no move to say anything. Instead, he simply adjusted his grip on his bat’leth slowly. 

“Look, I know a lot of things happened back there, who can even say who started it…” He punctuated his thought with a wild swing of a claw. “What do you say we call the whole thing off? Shake and make up, like the humans do?” He pointed his claw outward to Cyclonus. 

Cyclonus gave the claw a pointed look for a moment before batting it away with his hand. “I’ll do no such thing.” He moved to brush past Whirl, only to have the Breen block him. 

“That’s not very nice,” Whirl said, the single eye-like light shining from his helmet narrowing to a softly lit line. When Cyclonus did nothing in reply save for glare, Whirl pushed him.

Cyclonus snarled. “Shove me again and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“That so?” Whirl didn’t so much as hesitate, batting Cyclonus’s shoulder with a clawed hand.

Cyclonus roared, rolling back the arm he held his bat’leth in, and swinging with ferocious speed. Whirl dodged, his lupine body slipping around the blade with a fluid grace. The two outer prongs of the blade embedded into the bulkhead, and Cyclonus had to brace the wall with his foot to pull it free. In the meantime, Whirl had slipped around to his other side with a hissing laugh leaking through his helmet. A sharper blade snapped out from Whirl’s wrist, and he sliced a gash across Cyclonus’s side, dribbling pink blood over his clothes. Cyclonus roared and spun to strike him with his blade again, not paying any attention to the nearby opening door. 

“What’s going on out h—” Rung had no sooner poked his head out of Ten Forward to see what the calamity was about than found a blade swinging at him. Cyclonus tried to pull back the blow at the last second, but it was too late to stop the momentum, and the blade glashed the length of the therapist’s arm. 

“Eyebrows!” Skids darting out of the bar in an instant, even as Rung waved him away with his uninjured hand, muttering that he was fine. 

“Cyclonus!”

Cyclonus became still, face filling with guilt as more people poured out of Ten Forward, first among them his small Andorian roommate. “I…” Cyclonus stumbled over his words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

He was cut off at Whirl tackled him again. Cyclonus was knocked off guard, losing his grip on his bat’leth and falling onto the floor. He kicked at his attacker, rearing back to punch him when the nearby turbo lift opened. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” 

Admiral Prime stood at the threshold of the turbolift, glaring down at the combatants. From behind him, Rodimus was scrambling through the crowd of others that just returned from Utopia Planitia. “I’m sure this is all just a… cultural misunderstanding.” He looked down at Cyclonus. “Right?”

Cyclonus didn’t say anything, looking past him into the turbo lift, where Prime’s security attaché was staring at him. He was so transfixed that he hardly realized someone was helping him up until Tailgate had hefted him up. 

Prime sighed. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands to figure out as I finish the final inspection then.”

“No need,” Rodimus said, jumping to keep up with Optimus. “I trust my crew has it well in hand.” He punctuated that statement with a glare in Cyclonus’s direction. 

Cyclonus paid no attention as Prime brushed past, as did his security attaché, who had looked away and did not so much as pause to acknowledge him as she carefully stepped over the puddle of his blood on the carpet, almost a matching shade to her boots and dress. He looked up at her, at the ridges of her forehead, framed with a horned headdress, differing from his own only in the way it curved to circle around the side of her head like a ram horn. 

“Cyclonus, who is that?” Tailgate whispered, but Cyclonus could not find his voice to answer. “A klingon in the Admiral’s inner circle?” Tailgate continued, despite Cyclonus’s stunned silence. “Things really have changed, huh? Her horns looked kinda like yours too. I wonder—”

Cyclonus shushed him with a hiss when it became clear he wouldn’t stop talking, if left to his own devices. 

The only person from the turbo lift party who remained was Ratchet, who was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, anyone who’s bleeding, come with me and I’ll get you patched up.” He backed into the turbolift, making room as Skids helped Rung into the lift. Whirl seemed to make a shrugging motion and joined, though it was unclear as to whether he was actually injured or not. 

Cyclonus stood, pulling away from the concerned Tailgate, but made no move to join them. 

“Well?” Ratchet said, glaring at him. “Come on then.”

Cyclonus wrapped his arm around his midriff, cupping his hand over his wounded side. “I’d rather not.”

“Cyclonus…” Tailgate started, before Cyclonus growled at him. 

Ratchet scoffed. “Suit yourself. Just know that if I don’t see you in the next hour or so I’ll be sending someone after you.”

Cyclonus nodded, and set about limping back towards his quarters.

“Cyclonus.”

He ignored Tailgate, continuing to walk away.

“Cyclonus!”

He spun around. “What?!”

When he looked down, he saw Tailgate was holding up his bat’leth. “I didn’t want you to forget it.” He was speaking barely louder than a whisper, his voice soft. “I can carry it for you if you want. Seems like Nutjob rattled you real bad.”

Cyclonus looked down at him, expression neutral, considering. He finally reached out, with the hand that wasn’t bracing his side, taking the sword from him. “Thank you.”

Tailgate nodded. Cyclonus didn’t object as the small Andorian walked beside him. 

“I think I have a dermal regenerator in the quarters too,” Tailgate said. “If you want.”

Cyclonus huffed at that, holding his bleeding side a little tighter. “Do not concern yourself.” When Tailgate seemed to take no comfort in that, Cyclonus sighed. “I will be fine.”

Tailgate hummed, unconvinced.  
  


* * *

  
“Wait… Hold on… Please…” 

Tarn hardly heard the voice over the sound of the music playing. He was humming, twirling an armor-clad finger in the air as if conduction the symphony. It was just reaching its crescendo as the Romulan at his feet took a break from bleeding out in a puddle of green blood to mutter something inconsequential. 

“Ssspeaks,” Vos hissed, as much as a Tholian could manage to verbalize in the fashion of a typical humanoid. 

“I think he’s still alive, Tarn,” Helex said, the Edosian crossing all three of his arms in front of him. 

“Imagine that,” Kaon said, his grip on the prisoner tightening to hit him with a few more jolts of electricity, prompting a few more weak screams. 

“Interesting,” Tarn said, leaning in even as the electricity from his Brekkian associate arched off of him. “When he’d stopped talking I’d assumed that was that.” He cocked his head, squinting through his face mask. “Let him go, Kaon.” 

Kaon stopped the electrical discharge, letting their prisoner, Black Shadow, fall limp to the ground. 

Tarn knelt down closer to the ailing assassin. “It’s funny,” he all-but whispered to him, his voice dipping dangerously low. “Most people after being sliced apart by my good Nausican friend here, Tesarus, and then left to the whims of Kaon, Vos, and Helex, get the idea that they should consider it a boon to be left for dead. But here you had to go and make a scene.” 

“I have information,” Black Shadow croaked out. “I need to pass it on. To the top. To S—” 

Tarn cut him off with a disgusted noise. “The DJD takes no orders from anyone save Megatron.” 

“Megatron,” Black Shadow panted. “Is gone.” 

Tarn let out a rumbling laugh. “Perhaps.” He leaned in closer, digging his knuckles into the ground. “But, the DJD still follows its orders. And he left us with no shortage of directives.” 

“I can help you find him,” Black Shadow said. His fingers were curling in the dirt, nails scrabbling to cling to life. “Please. I can help you get him back. I know the humans’ plans. I can tell you, just let me live.” 

“And I’m to presume that you _didn’t_ get this information from cavorting with the Federation,” Tarn said, his voice as low as distant thunder. “Gained as you swapped our secrets for theirs? I’ll not succeed on the back of your treachery.” 

“Please, Tarn, I can—” He was cut off as Tarn took his chin in his hand, wrenching a yelp from his throat. 

“The time for your grovelling is over, Black Shadow,” Tarn said, tilting his head to whisper directly into his ear. “Now all that’s left is for you to listen.”  
  


* * *

  
“Well, Rodimus,” Optimus said, finishing his inspection of the bridge. “Despite a few… notable hiccups…” He folded his arms crisply behind his back at that, as if too polite to expand on that thought. He turned, facing Rodimus. “I believe you have a good crew.” 

Rodimus stood in front of the Captain’s chair, and gave him a crisp salute. He felt Magnus coming up on his right to stand next to him. “Thank you, sir.” 

To Optimus’s left, his security attaché, Arcee, finished her sweep of the bridge, and gave a nod of approval. “All things seem to be in order, Admiral.” 

Optimus nodded, thanking her. “Then by all means, Captain. Good luck.” He hit his combage, signalling the station, and the two of them were quickly transported away. 

Rodimus fell back on his chair, unable to contain a wide smile. 

Magnus sat down slower, eyeing him. “Captain?” 

Rodimus turned to him, still beaming. “Yes, Mags? I mean… Number One?” 

Magnus frowned. “Are you… I mean…” He sighed, reconsidering his words. “Did everything go alright when you spoke with the Admiral in person?” 

“Of course,” Rodimus said. 

“I just mean,” Magnus continued. “You were in a very foul mood, and I thought speaking to the Admiral would only worsen matters.” 

Rodimus snorted. “Nonsense.” He grinned, settling into his seat. “Everything about this mission is going to be just fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't promise regular updates on this, but I do intend to continue this fic. Thank you for your support, and feel free to check out [my twitter](https://twitter.com/blue_mels) for updates.


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